Dona Nobis Pacem
by VioletStella
Summary: Tony's thoughts post "Requiem."


Dona Nobis Pacem

Tony looked around his room, random piles of boxes containing the fragments of his father's life bore silent witness to the results of the day. At some point he would have to sort through those boxes, but as he was more than a little overwhelmed by the emotional upheaval he'd been through, he granted himself a temporary reprieve. It was far too late tonight to start the process anyway, he absolved, silently vowing to perform the duty on another day. Or maybe, he considered, he could take the boxes up to the attic and empty their contents at a time when he felt more able to deal with them. Maybe ten, twenty years or so from now.

Trying to put some distance between himself and the memories, he went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. On the way back he peeked into Sam's room, it comforted him to know she was safe and sleeping soundly. He watched her sleep in a moment of paternal pride, said a very soft, "I love you," then shut the door. In the hallway he glanced toward Angela's bedroom door, then Jonathan's; he reflected on how lucky he was to have both of them as part of his life. Jonathan was a great kid and he was reveling in the role of being a surrogate father to this little boy. Then there was Angela. Angela, her name flitted through his mind as he walked back to his room and shut the door.

As he changed for bed his thoughts were still on his boss. She'd been so much more than a boss to him today. He hadn't been having an easy time trying to pack the apartment; in fact, he had to admit to himself, he was close to throwing in the towel and coming back another day, or just grabbing an important memento or two and declaring the job finished. There was too much facing him. Too many photographs, too many memories closing in on him from all sides in that apartment. No one ever knew how many times during the past year he'd let himself into the empty apartment and sat there alone, trying to make sense of a senseless situation, looking for solace, comfort, anything to heal the grief. Trying to find a connection with his father; but there was no connection, just stuff that used to be his and desolation.

His father's apartment had once been an important part of his family; a place of joyous Sunday dinners, birthday parties for Sam, and watching every sport possible on tv. How could he let go of a place he considered to be more of a home than his own former apartment? How could he break this important link to his father? If he finished packing today, then he would never return to a place that had meant so much to him. It would be acknowledging that there would be no more memories to be made here. His father's apartment would no longer be part of his family. He wasn't sure if he was ready for that; in the truthful recesses of his soul he knew he wasn't ready for that.

The knock on the door had startled him from his morose meanderings. What was Angela doing there? And why? He'd wondered, quickly, how was he going to cover up the fact that he had achieved precious little during the day? He felt like a guilty school boy who'd been caught not doing his homework. She'd given him the push he'd needed; but he'd been too stymied by the past to accomplish much of anything.

He needn't have worried for Angela was not there to judge him. She was there to be nothing but the embodiment of compassion. She knew. She knew the pain he was struggling with. Never at any time in the past year had he felt anyone truly understood. Finally there was someone he could share the pain with, talk to about his father. None of the guys had been able to help him; even when they tried it seemed as though there were canyons of emotions that could not be crossed, topics of discussion that should have been hashed out but were conveniently ignored. They played poker, ate a lot of pizza, and drank a lot of toasts to his father; and that's as far as it went. He could see the sympathy in their eyes; and their complete befuddlement at not being able to offer any solutions.

Now that he had finished changing, Tony sat on his bed; his friends weren't bad guys, just people caught in a difficult situation; but Angela...Angela lived up to her name in more ways than one today. Her very presence soothed him. She brought with her a ray of hope, something that showed him that this too would pass. He metaphorically leaned on her, and she was more than strong enough to hold him up. She really was something. She didn't have to be there; didn't have to make the trek from Manhattan to Brooklyn, but she did, and in that process helped him recover. She listened, she gently pushed him when he needed it, and she reminded him that life does indeed go on.

However, it was her departure that cemented an everlasting gratitude in him. He'd never forget the way she looked in the doorway with the hall lights shining behind her; he thought she really did look like an angel. An angel who appeared in the nick of time to help him through the morass of death and grief he'd been fighting his way through for the past year. It was like a forest; dark and murky. He'd been plunging through it, attacking it from every angle, trying to slice through the undergrowth of memories he'd rather forget. The loss of his baseball career, the loss of Marie, the shocking unexpected loss of his father. For so long he blamed himself for not being there when his father needed him the most. His unnecessary guilt continually tripped him up. He'd given up looking for a way out of the quagmire when Angela easily walked through and held out her hand to him. Finally, the labyrinth gave way and new vistas greeted his eyes. She'd given him the strength to say goodbye to his father's apartment. His father wasn't there anymore, it was time to say his final goodbye, he couldn't stay there anymore, life had moved on and he had to let go of the bereft shell; let go and let some other family create their own memories there.

Tony leaned over to set the alarm for the next morning. On the table was a small box, one he had been avoiding all night. He couldn't ignore it anymore. He opened the box. His father's pocket watch confronted him again with its message, "To my 14 karat son." His first instinct was to put the watch back in the box and bury it in some drawer somewhere. But he couldn't, this watch meant too much to his father to be shut away and forgotten.

He pulled the watch fully out of the box and held it. The first thought in his mind was, "what am I doing with my father's watch?" He studied the watch in his hand, it didn't look right from this point of view, it didn't belong in his hand, it belonged in his father's, but his father wasn't there to hold it. The watch was heavy, he felt the weight of his father's legacy as he held the watch. This watch was something that made him...him. Part and parcel of his father. His father, not him. Was he a worthy successor to this watch that had been such a part of his father's life? The truth that his father thought him worthy of the watch did not occur to him. Could he live up to his father's dreams for him? He'd forgotten he'd already made dreams come true for his father. Would his father have been proud of him for the choices he'd made in the past year? He had no way of knowing. Could he live up to the man his father was? The watch held no answer to that either.

One thing he did know, no matter how much he tried to deny it, this wasn't his father's watch anymore; it was his and he would have to come to terms with that...someday. His father obviously wanted him to have the watch and in an abstract sense he knew the watch was his; but it still wasn't really his. He could only hope to be a good caretaker of it. His father wasn't made up of his former possessions anyway; his father would always be closer than close, forever a golden piece of his heart. He put the watch away, turned out the light and tried to get some sleep.

Sleep was not forthcoming; no matter how many times he tossed and turned or tried to mush his pillow into a more comfortable shape. His mind wouldn't let him rest; thoughts of his father were too strong. He flicked the light back on and threw back the bed covers. Agitated, he got up and paced around the room, trying to find some solace, some place where it didn't hurt. It didn't work, his attention was caught by something new on the top of his dresser: his father's Mets baseball; not really new, of course, but new to this room. The ball stood out, foreign, he was not yet accustomed to seeing it there. He stopped and stared at it. Tony remembered the number of times his father held that ball, he was so proud of it. His father would never hold that ball again. He swallowed the emotion that came over him.

He had to get out of the room. He briefly considered heading to the garage for a workout or out for a run; but neither seemed practical, it was too late at night for either. At his wit's end, he decided to go downstairs for a glass of water, and maybe some therapeutic cooking. After all, he was Italian, food was the answer to all of life's harsh questions; and the not so harsh ones as well.

Out in the hallway he felt a little less oppressed, the walls weren't closing in on him here. He was confronted with the door to Angela's room. For a desperate moment or two he considered knocking on it; but decided she had already done more than her duty in helping him deal with this earlier today. There was no reason for him to disturb his boss' slumber.

Years later he would find out that Angela would not have minded a knock on the door. The events of the day had brought up some deep emotions for her too. She wasn't sleeping well either and would have welcomed the chance to go downstairs for a cup of tea, or ice cream, or better yet; chocolate.

Arriving in the kitchen gave Tony the sense that he had some control over the situation. Here he could do something to focus his mind on something other than his father. Now if only he could figure out what to do. He wasn't really thirsty, so he passed on the water. He opened the refrigerator door as if the contents held salvation for him. Seeing nothing in there to grab his attention and pull him out of this funk he slammed the door. He surveyed the kitchen, hands on his hips. He considered that maybe it was time to start baking Christmas cookies, but decided against it because he promised the kids they would bake them together. Besides, he didn't want to have to explain to Angela how cookies, or anything else, magically appeared overnight. He didn't think she'd buy a story about Santa arriving early and didn't want to explain his late night wanderings.

He decided it wasn't too late at night for a workout. Now that he thought of it, it was still early enough that Mona probably wasn't even home from her date yet. Time in a house with two kids ran quite differently from Mona Time. He chuckled, realizing that time everywhere else on the planet ran differently from Mona Time. He made his way to the garage and dove into an intense workout, doing his best to forget for a little while. It was a struggle, one he didn't quite succeed with, but at least he'd exhausted himself and hopefully now he would be able to sleep.

Tony went back upstairs, he paused for a moment with his hand on the door knob to his room; he turned his head to see the closed door of Angela's room. He smiled, feeling the first whispers of emotion telling him that he would get through this. He was starting to release his lonely burden, to let go of the past; no one could live there, least of all, him. He had to focus his thoughts on the gifts of the present: his cherished daughter and the rest of the people around him.

Finally able to face his own room, he went in and shut the door. A new thought crossed his mind; he was sorry his father never got a chance to meet Angela. Then he had to reconsider; if his father hadn't died, would he have moved in the first place? It was a conundrum that was pointless to consider, so he dismissed the thought quickly.

He sat down on the bed, once again removing his father's pocket watch from its box. This time when he looked at it, he saw love. The love of a father who had imbued his love into the watch without even trying. A proud father gifting his son a treasure that could never match the treasure he himself had been to his father. It was a feeling he knew well from his own paternal view. He saw the watch as a talisman, a token of love to bind the generations of the Micelli family together through the years. Someday, he mused, when she was old enough, he'd give this watch to Samantha. He hoped she would see the love in it too. He vowed to give her this watch before he died; unfortunately, he belatedly remembered that his father's plan was also to give him the watch before he died. He put the watch away, unable to look at it anymore.

His thoughts summed up his tumultuous year: the blow of his father's death, the move to Connecticut, a new job for him, a new school for Sam. The chances he took were unnerving for all of them. Would he and Sam be able to build lives for themselves here? The jury was still out, there had been some challenges and he had no doubts that there would be more; but Sam seemed to be settling in. She had an excellent role model in Angela; and a unique one in Mona. She looked happy and obviously enjoyed spending time with Jonathan, Angela and Mona. It was also obvious to him that Angela and Mona adored having a little girl around the house.

Tony tucked himself into bed, emotionally worn out as well as physically worn out. As he pulled up the covers, he took a mental inventory of his life. He had a strong heart still willing to love; a heart that was finding its way to peace through gratitude. This gratitude was currently best expressed in his relationship with Angela. He was grateful to her for opening her home to him and Samantha, for sharing her precious son with him; for the deeper friendship they'd forged today.

He had a new beginning, more importantly he had a new home. This time when he turned off the lamp, he fell into a peaceful slumber.


End file.
